


protégé

by lolitaaaa



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beta Wanted, Daddy Issues, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Messy, Non-Sexual Kink, Not Beta Read, Praise Kink, Skyrim Spoilers, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, Thieves Guild Questline, This Is STUPID
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 19:59:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16604543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolitaaaa/pseuds/lolitaaaa
Summary: Jasper isn't looking for much. A home, some coin, and a father figure. Brynjolf and his ragtag band of thieves offer as much, in a twisted sort of way.





	protégé

**Author's Note:**

> the praise thing isnt like sexy i promise he just wants 2 be loved. am i projecting? probably. also wood elves are tiny!!!! babies. i got back into Skyrim and like did all the DLCs and got %100 of the achievements but i always go back 2 my fave (boring) play style. sneaky wood elf who marries muiri and has 2 kids. this is like,, what i based that off of? idk im rambling pls read this and comment and tell me what i did wrong pls

“You're Brynjolf's new protege, eh? Don't look like much to me.” Vekel eyes the kid in the seat in front of him. Face covered with a hood, clad in ill-fitting leather armor, and, the strangest bit of all, not a piece of jewelry to be seen. Ugly, tiny, and poor is what he made of it. The kid doesn't say a word. He doesn't even offer a shrug. He just sits there, unbothered by Vekel's remark.

No one really comes to his rescue, either. They don't even look his way as he silently waits for Brynjolf. He just swings his feet, which don't even touch the floor, a gesture fitting of his size. But, not of the stories Brynjolf told. The kid had apparently been nicking things from pockets far before Brynjolf offered him a place in the guild.

In fact, as Vekel recalled, the sole reason the boy was in the Ragged Flagon was because he had dared to take something from someone very very important. That very important person just so happened to be Maven Black-Briar.

Brynjolf had been sitting in The Bee and Barb when the deal went down. Sure, the Ragged Flagon had good drink and better company, but one could only take so much of the foul air. Vekel couldn't find it in himself to be annoyed. He too, found the stuffiness suffocating at times.

Right by the door of the tavern stood Louis Letrush, looking as well kempt as always. And, that is to say not all all. His scraggly, thinning hair shone thick with oil, his stubble patchy and unshaved.

However, the kid who entered the tavern, just barely over hip high on Letrush, didn't seem wary of him at all. Instead, when Letrush pulled him aside, the kid stayed as calm as he had been when he first entered.

“Looking for work? I need someone to deliver a message to Sibbi Black-Briar.” The kid nodded, and moved closer.

Brynjolf couldn't make out the rest of the conversation too well, but by the end of his tankard he had amassed enough information to be interested in the little tyke.

The kid was to go and chat with the eldest Black-Briar baby about a purebred horse, steal said horse's lineage papers, and then steal the horse as well. The kid didn't falter when he shook Letrush's hand.

This was interesting indeed.

How would the kid manage? He was dressed in scuffed leather, poorly dyed a deep black, some of the brown still visible, and had a steel dagger on each hip. A thieves guild wannabe?

Whatever the case, though he was quiet, he seemed confident enough in his skills to take from the Black-Briars. This could be either an interesting prospect, or a hilarious tale to relay to Delvin later.

He left a neat pile of eleven septims at his seat and left the bar, shadowing the kid far more interesting than drowning his anxieties in crappy mead.

The boy was good, better than Brynjolf was at his age, if his age was indeed what he thought it to be. Not a minute over fifteen was his guess. But, no matter how good he was, he wasn't nearly good enough. Brynjolf followed behind him easily, all the way to the Riften jail. Before opening the door and leaving Brynjolf to his devices, he produced a blue bottle from the satchel tied to his thigh. A bribe, Brynjolf thought with a grin. The boy was gone soon after

It was prime time for drink, and whoever was posted to watch the jail doors was conveniently deprived of it. A bottle of Black-Briar reserve was sure to loosen up both the guard and the locks on the door.

Clever.

Brynjolf waited for the kid to reappear, sitting beside the tree below the alcove in which the door was situated. Brynjolf wasn't too keen on being arrested tonight, and justly so. If this prospect led somewhere…

Well let's just say his pockets wouldn't be as light as they were before.

The sky was beginning to fade from orange to black then, and Riften was soon cloaked in a murky, blue darkness. Brynjolf was now far harder to spot, and dared move from his spot, inching closer, though not close enough to draw the attention of the two guards swapping shifts a front the door.

Just then, two figures emerged from the door to the jail. A wobbly guard and a night sheathed pipsqueak. While the new jail guard began accusing his hiccuping predecessor of drinking on the job, the kid slipped away unscathed and unapprehended.

Brynjolf slipped away as well, lagging behind the boy just enough that he wouldn't be spotted, but close enough to know where he was headed. The Black-Briar lodge.

Brynjolf quit his pursuit then. Not that he wouldn't enjoy watching a mini marauder manage to smuggle a horse out from under Mavens nose, but it was getting to late for him to be out. Back to the guild he returned, but he was right outside the gates that morning, far before Letrush.

And sure enough, there the kid was, cream colored stallion in tow. Though he looked worse for the wear, a lingering scent of blood emanating from him, he seemed unharmed. Brynjolf emerged from his book beside the door, and accosted the kid before Letrush could.

He was in the middle of petting the creatures mane, a sound similar to a giggle filtering through his hood, when Brynjolf began his speech. He didn't get very far however.

“You are the one who followed me.” The statement isn't accusing, but only a statement, softly spoken with no inflection.

“Aye, that I am, lad.” Brynjolf is surprised, but doesn't show it. “Fine horse you've got there. What's its name?”

“He's very pretty. His name is Frost. Says so here.” He pulls the, slightly crumpled, lineage papers from his breastplate. The guards, efficiently pacified with a few gold each, paid no mind to the very illegal document waving.

“I see, lad. Put those away now, wouldn't want to get in trouble, would we?” Brynjolf smiles when the boy nods, stuffing the parchment back where it came from. There's no risk of trouble now, but if the boy was to be taken under his wing, it would be in his best interest to teach him the rules now and not in the middle of a job. “You know what else is big trouble?”

The boy shakes his head.

Brynjolf, amazed with his own brilliant segue, answers his own question. “An angry Maven Black-Briar.” Though the stuffy old lump of jewels and silk was more of a pain in the you-know-were for Brynjolf than the kid, she was a problem for both of them. A problem that when solved, they would both come out with a benefit.

The kid nods slowly, and though he can't see his face, his newly adopted inward posture is the picture of sheepish.

“Aye, don't fret lad. We all do stupid things for coin, myself included. But, Maven won't forgive as easily as I.”

The boy practically faints. For a their, he isn't too good at bluffing.

“But, I can make things well with Maven if you do me a favor. Keep the horse. Don't give it to Letrush or Maven will have both of our hides. Then, once you're done with him, see of you can find me down in the Ratway. If I can convince Maven you're a promising new recruit, she'll let us slip by. Alright lad?”

The boy nods. “I wanted Frost anyway.” He emphasizes this by bringing his face close to the great thing's hide. It snorts at him.

Brynjolf leaves then, but not before crossing paths with a jolly Letrush. He wouldn't be so jolly in due time.

And that, Brynjolf told Vekel, is why he should expect a new recruit about yay high (he then gestured to give or take half a foot above his belly button).

He offered the kid food, which he accepted. When Brynjolf finally made himself known, the boy had lowered the mask under his hood, breaking off pieces of a sweet roll and popping them between his lips, the only thing he's seen of the waif thus far. They're fat, and now have a light coating of crumbs over them.

When Brynjolf calls, “Over here, lad!” the kid licks his lips and pulls the mask back up as fast as he pulled it down in the first place.

He walks up to his new mentor, a skip in his step reminiscent of a puppy greeting its master.

“Didn't think you'd make it out alive.” Brynjolf is half serious. The boy shakes his head.

“I'm not that awful.” Brynjolf can somehow hear the frown in his otherwise inexpressive quip. He isn't sure whether he's joking back or if he's genuinely upset, so he just moves on.

“What's your name, lad? We'll need to call you something if you're joining our little family.” The kid nods.

“Jasper is fine.” He replies simply.

“Jasper.” Brynjolf tests the word on his tongue absentmindedly. He would have done it again if the owner of the name didn't tilt his head up in what Brynjolf assumed to be eagerness. “Well then, Jasper, how old are you? We can't have someone too young in the business after all.” Brynjolf began praying to whatever Divines existed that he wasn't an abnormally large seven year old.

The answer he got, however, was just as surprising. “I'm nineteen. Is that alright?”

“Nineteen? Yeah, that's fine lad.” This kid is just full of surprises.

“Last bit of the interrogation now, lad. Can you take off the mask?” Jasper visibly stiffens.

“Do I have to?” The silent ‘in front of everyone’ was heard loud and clear to Brynjolf.

“Just show me lad. Just so we know it's you coming back from a job and not a fake, yeah?”

Judging by his posture, arms folded over his chest, he isn't convinced.

“Vekel, you arse, don't stare at him.” The barkeep holds his hands up in mock defeat, turning his attention to a smudge on the bar that needs scrubbing. “That goes for the rest of you as well!” The only others watching the scene were Tonilia and Delvin, the face changer, Dirge, and Vex finding it unworthy of their time.

Only once Delvin started to his debate about model ships with Vekel and Tonilia began counting her stock did Jasper pull the hood back.

He was a bosmer, that was for sure, bronze skin and pure black, bug-large eyes. He didn't pull it back far enough to let Brynjolf get a glimpse of anything but those eyes and a lick of ebony hair that had fallen across his brow. The eyes, those night black eyes where distinctive enough.

Brynjolf was struck with an odd feeling. He brushed it off as his weird paternal instinct and cleared his suddenly cotton-dry throat. “You can put it back on now, lad. You'll do nicely. Now, come with me. I've got a job for you.”

“Yessir.” Jasper mumbled.

\---

He was screwed. With a capital ‘S’.

Goldenglow could not be going any worse for him.

Jasper winces, tugging a makeshift bandage over his right thigh. He hadn't even begun infiltration, but had already gauged his leg trying to get into the entrance Vex had begrudgingly told him about. Damn mercenaries and their arrows. The arrow lay beside him. It wasn't the smartest move to yank it out, and now he was missing quite a bit of thigh. The blood was gushing fast, and the strip of cloth did little to stop it.

The dampness from the floor was beginning to seep into the seat of his pants and the sweat on his brow was no help either. Get in, get out, arson. That was his job. That was his in to the guild.

That was his way to become respected.

That's the one thing that repeated itself over and over in his brain as he grit his teeth against the pain. If he couldn't do this, they'd never respect him. Respect.

Respect from Brynjolf. Ever since he'd met the bird, he's been overcome with a need. A base, animal need to prove himself to the older thief. He wanted to be regarded with praise again. Wanted to be looked at like he mattered.

And so he stood, albeit on wobbly legs. He started moving forward, finding that taking steps was far less painful than standing still. Inch by inch he made it inside of the estate, crouched low to the floor, the only indication he'd been within the buildings vicinity being the thinning trail of blood he left behind. If anything, despite his uselessness in combat, he was a thief through and through.

He cracks open the door to the estate, and slips in as quiet as his injury allowed. His soft grunts of pain were loud enough to send some of the smarter mercenaries looking. But, being the smartest sellsword is a bit like being the smartest skeever, so they didn't get very far. He supposed that not all of his luck washed up. Jasper had never been as fond of the violence that came with a life of thievery, not fond at all compared to his love of the coin and the adrenaline.

His journey to the safe is uneventful if anything, and by the time he's taken everything inside of it, the blood on his leg has coagulated nicely.

He exits through the passage he'd been told about and began wading through the water, drawing nearer to both land and his escape route. He ducks under the water when a few of the mercenaries began yelling at one another. His lungs started to ache and his eyes burned, but he didn't dare take a breath until the shouting ceased. He then broke the surface of the lake, sucking in air and pushing his hair out of his face. There, on a small lump of land that could hardly been called island.

Frost.

As soon as the water is shallow enough to stand, Jasper breaks out into a run, despite the throbbing in his right leg. He jumps mid movement and grabs Frosts saddle, swinging himself onto the horse with ease. He smacks the stallions flank with a hand and lays his head horses mane, breathing in the mix of soap and animal scent as Frost ran to the stables. He'd practiced with the horse each night leading up to today, and his foresight was beginning to pay off.

Back and forth and back and forth from the stables to the estate, stables to the estate. Just in case he became incapacitated and couldn't direct Frost back. Jasper encircles his arms around the great thing's neck, holding on for dear life as the stallion thumps along at a stolid pace. His head began to thump, too. Brynjolf was going to be livid. His one chance to prove himself, and he messed it all up.

He didn't cry as Frost pulled into the stable, though he wanted to.

\---

“Don't.” Jasper backed away, clutching his thigh despite himself. “It doesn't even hurt.” He refrains from adding ‘anymore’. His thigh had since gone numb from the blood loss. He feared if Delvin removed the bandage he'd find blue skin underneath.

He didn't need taking care of.

“C'mon now. D'you think Brynjolf wants to see his new puppy all bloody and sad?” Delvin either doesn't hear the indignant huff from Jasper, or simply ignores it in favor of taking a step forward and pulling the bandage off with one flick of the wrist. It was pretty flimsy after all.

“Fuck, kid. Sit up on the bar, then.”

Vekel groans about ‘more damned blood on his wood’, but moves plates aside anyway, making a spot for the boy to sit.

Jasper, though he could certainly use it, asks for no help as he hops up onto the counter. His grace comes naturally both as a bosmer and as a youth, but it's no less impressive considering his injury. Once his lithe, dripping form was as comfortable as it could be, Delvin grabs one of Vekel's clean(ish) looking rags and sops up the dregs of wine left in his tankard.

“Wine's an antiseptic, y'know,” he comments offhandedly as he peels back the already torn fabric surrounded the gash. It wasn't green yet, and Delvin wouldn't let it turn even the lightest of yellows if it ended him. Brynjolf would be the one to end him if he dared to do a slapdash job on his little recruit. “It's one of the best damned antiseptics out there, so this is gonna sting, kid.” He presses the rag to the torn skin, and can't help but be impressed when Jasper only tenses and inhales sharply.

“You're a tough little one, eh? Good, cause we're jus’ getting started.” He presses the rag into the flesh harder, before letting go entirely. “Hold that there.”

Delvin then shook his hands, the way one does when they lose feeling in them. However, Delvins only lost his feeling for magic. Being a Breton had no use in his line of work, but he found it to be beneficial in times like these. His hands grew hot and golden, but not so much so that it was a well cast spell.

Not everybody had time to brush up on their restoration, especially not Delvin. But, it should suffice for now.

And suffice it did. He motions for Jasper to lift the cloth, and he brings his hands to the thigh underneath.

The muscle begins to knit together, ever so slowly, until there's no longer a chunk of thigh missing. Just a bloody indent remains. It's starting to crust over, just barely.

“It's going to scar.” Jasper murmurs in his lullaby soft voice.

“That it is, kid. But this is better than nothing. Keep the rag over it, and then bandage it with these.” He pulls a few strips of cloth from his breast pocket.

“Thank you.”

Delvin makes a shooing motion. “Go on, now. Clean yourself up before Brynjolf comes home and has a damn heart attack.”

This galvanizes the pipsqueak well enough, and he jumps off the bar counter and over to Tonilia's corner, fists in his pockets for money to snag a sewing needle. He couldn't very well face his mentor after a near failure with torn pants, could he?

Jasper had barely managed to close the hole in his pants when a large hand claps down onto his shoulder. He turns immediately, instincts overthrowing reason, but soon relaxes when he sees who it is.

Brynjolf. A smiling one, at that. His smile is more of a smirk than anything but the mirth in his eyes shows his true feelings.

“Word on the street is that Goldenglow's been hit. Good job, lad.” Jasper practically beams under his mask.

If he opens his mouth he knows his response will be nothing more than wuhs and huhs, so he elects to nod instead, pulling a piece of paper from his satchel. The bag was mostly waterproof, and though Brynjolf had to squint at times to make out the words, his mood, unlike the paper, remained undamped.

Until he read the last few lines, that is. “Damn it. I need to show this to Mercer.” The name evokes a dark haired man in guild armor. Jasper only met the man once, but knows the weight his name carries. He opens his mouth to ask what's so important. “Don't you worry about it, kid. You have some down time until your next big move. Pick up a job from Vex or Delvin. And stay out of trouble. Well, you know what I mean.” And with that, the hand and the man attached to it are gone.

Jasper frowns under his mask. He doesn't feel respected. In fact, he feels the opposite. Brynjolf brushed him off like some kid who had shown him a drawing they made.

It was gonna take a lot more to gain some respect, it seemed.

“Delvin. Got any fishing jobs?”

\---

Delvin did have a fishing job. But, as it turned out, Jasper would have to travel out of town to complete it. He'd never left Riften, only ever daring to skirt along the border of Eastmarch.

Windhelm was just beyond that border, a mass of stone embedded into snow, and was the home of his target. It was a half day trip, and that was if he left the very next day, and that's excluding time to rest. If you factor in Frost, an hour might be shaved off, but still.

Jasper had a long day ahead of him.

He had slept in the bed Brynjolf said he was allowed to use, and rose just before sunrise. His thigh still throbbed slightly, but not so much so that he was inhibited. He stood from the bed, and gathered up the things he had left in the chest in front of it the night before. His weapons, gold, changes of clothes, Frost's saddlebag, and a large sack filled to the brim with shiny bits and baubles.

He took everything but the sack. Instead, he grabbed a handful of jewels from it and stuffed them in one of his satchel's pockets. If he found himself penniless and stranded, he could always exchange a few sapphires for gold.

Once his satchel was situated on his unwounded thigh and his daggers were strapped to his slim hips, Jasper made his way to the surface. The early morning sunlight was dampened by the thin layer of mist hanging in the air.

That meant one thing. Rain.

Jasper had never been very lucky, a trait most awful for an up-and-coming thief, but this week was the worst of it. If anything, he still needed provisions for the road. He begins walking from the cemetery to the marketplace, keeping his gaze low to the ground, stopping awkward eye contact and stiff small talk before it can even occur.

He pulls his hood lower still as he hobbles up to Marise Aravel, the dunmer meat merchant. He's more comfortable around her than the others, and she sells the food he'll need for the journey. Her quiet, reserved demeanor matches his own and his mood lightens after he's done buying his goods, and Frost's bag becomes heavier with his rations.

He then moves on to Balimund. The smith is the opposite of himself, but his company isn't so awful that he can't nod absently at the man's boasts. He picks up a few leather strips, useful for bandages or tourniquets, and is on his way.

“Come back anytime you wanna see a real professional work, kiddo!” Balimund shouts at his retreating back. Jasper holds up a thumbs up. He might not enjoy talking, but being rude is far worse in his book.

Only two shops left. The Pawned Prawn, of course. It has everything from battleaxes to goat horns. Jasper needs neither.

“Just these, please.” He drops the items he'd collected on the counter. A handful of healing potions, linen for bandages or blankets, and a book for the way. He was barely a man, barely a child in the eyes of most, so he couldn't be bothered with embarrassment as he plopped The Red Book of Riddles down alongside his more practical purchases. One can get bored as well as lonely when traveling far.

Hell, one can get bored and lonely just sitting around. But, when he was younger, Jasper had learned that a good book and a stuffed doll solved those problems. He had Frost, now, but a book would still prove its use later on.

“You sure you've got all the gold to pay for that?” Bersi is a kind, kind soul. In fact, too kind. His wife Drifa seems to agree, sighing through her nose at the small table she's sat at.

Jasper wants to sigh, too. He had made it so that he would never need handouts since he was young, and yet people still offered them. He didn't know if it was his size, his way of dress, or just the air about him, but it seemed that everyday someone regarded him with pity.

Some may say better pity than disgust. Jasper is not one of those people.

“Yessir.” He mumbles. He rummages through his satchel and produces just a little over eighty septims.

Bersi would have let him take it for half the price. A quarter, if he romanticized his terrible horrible childhood. For free, if he did that and uncovered his face to give him teary eyes and a pout.

But Jasper wasn't that kind of guy, leeching off the pity and handouts of others.

He stuffs his new items alongside his old ones. The bag is growing a bit heavy, he realizes as he walks out the door with a wave. Good thing he only has one stop left. Though it pains him to admit it, his thigh pulsates with each step.

He makes it to one of the many doors to The Bee and Barb, however, and swings the door open. It's only just turned nine, and so the tavern is pleasantly empty, save for the argonian couple who owned it, a snoring Vulwulf Snow-Shod, and an amber eyed imperial mage, who seemed to never leave the tavern.

Jasper draws nearer to the bar, prepared to be asked to leave. What he gets isn't quite as insulting.

“You look a bit young for drink, but if you've got the coin, we've got an arrangement.” Keerava, he decides then, is his kind of person. Unbothered by anything but gold.

He drops a gold necklace on the counter, and points to where she has the wine stored. Her eyes widen, almost comically so, but she takes down a bottle all the same, and he stuffs it in his bag. A good antiseptic, Delvin had said. He didn't need any festering, bubbling wounds, so what was the harm in getting a bottle. It would keep him alive.

And a drink for the way, if he so pleases.

He moves to exit through another door, but a hand stops him. He shakes it off, turns, and places a hand over his hip without a thought.

The imperial mage. “Where’re you of to, kid? Somewhere far?”

Jasper doesn't want to be rude, but doesn't quite trust the mage, either. He's got the gleam in his eye Jasper had seen in many a silver tongued merchant.

“Not far. Windhelm.” He elects to keep his replies short and simple.

“A treacherous journey, still. Someone your size would need protection, yes?”

Jasper wants to throw a fit about it. He wasn't that small, especially for a bosmer. But, the mage is making a good point.

“Maybe.”

“I could be that protection, for the mere fee of 500 gold. Marcurio, master of magic at your side. Why settle for just stabbing your foes when you can roast them alive in a gout of arcane fire, yes?” The lurid imagery sends a pang of nausea into his gut, but that just better inforces Marcurio's point.

Jasper was hopeless in a fight, preferring to charm, disarm, and go on his way. But, not every bandit on the road would find him absolutely precious, and he couldn't very well stick to the shadows his entire trip. It's a known fact the quickest routes are littered with plunderers and wild animals. Frost was a hulking stallion, but even he could be felled by a sabre cat.

However, he didn't have 500 septims on him. He pulls a gold sapphire ring from his satchel and drops it in the battlemage's hand. Marcurio's grin is borderline canine.

“When do we set off?”

\---

“For someone who claims to be nineteen, you sure do act like a child.” Marcurio yawns. He should be asleep, and Jasper tells him such.

“You should be more concerned with resting while you are able, not making comments. We should switch now.”

“Not my fault you're reading a children's book while making a journey to steal from someone.” Marcurio makes a sleepy grunt. “You're just one big contradiction, aren't you? A tiny, but deadly, thief who finds humor in kid's tales. Sounds like something that would come out of a kid's tale.” Marcurio snorts from the ground. He's holding Frost's bridle, leading him along, while Jasper sits cross legged on the horse's back, staying balanced even when the stallion picks up his pace. They switch places every hour or so. Jasper prefers to be down with Frost, but resting his legs is far more suited to his body right now.

“I can barely read, anyway.” Jasper mumbles. It just slips out. He doesn't mean for it to, but it does. It's only their seventh hour on the road, but seven straight hours with a fast talking imperial felt like a lifetime. And in his weathered state, he had let something personal slip.

Jasper knew were Marcurio went to school. The mage’s college in Cyrodil. He knew where he grew up. Bravil. Jasper even knew the name of his first pet.

It was a damned rat named Bitey.

And through all seven hours of his new companion's tales, Jasper hadn't spared a bit of himself in return. Until now, that is.

“You weren't taught to read?” Despite the clear wealth he had come from, Marcurio leaves his better-than-thou tone in the dust. In fact, he sounds sympathetic, somber even.

“No. I like the way the letters look, but I can't read ten words on this page.” His voice grows quieter with each admission.

“Well, we've got five hours. That's enough time to immolate a few bandits and learn how to spell immolate.” His sarcasm and wit return, and he holds his free hand out for the book.

Jasper hands it to him, missing the feel of it, but greatly anticipating being able to better appreciate all it had to offer.

\---

Marcurio was right, in a way. Before they reached the gates of Windhelm, he ended up teaching Jasper the entire alphabet and their multitude of sounds (why in oblivion do ‘s’ and ‘c’ make the same noise?) and was able to pick off two packs of bandits as well.

They were nearing the stables when Jasper finally understood the sounds and letters that made up his name. He said them under his breath as he and Marcurio tied Frost up beside the other horses.

“J, A, S, P, E, and R.” It was a mantra of sorts.

“Your horse. It's purebred, isn't it?” Marcurio asks, looking at Frost closely for the very first time. His creamy coat, intelligent eyes, and giant form. Clearly a breeding stallion.

“I think so.” Jasper stands on his tiptoes to stroke Frost's nose, and then turns to the stable hand. “Don't let anybody touch him. I'll be back within the hour to feed him.” He doesn't ask the woman if she understands, just starts limping up to the gates. Marcurio catches up with him easily.

The guards at the door are far too immersed in their own conversation to ask them to state their purpose or spin off any other pieces of the guardly spiel, and they just force the massive doors to Windhelm open.

What seems to be an inn is situated right in front of them. Jasper stills in his approach, handing his satchel to Marcurio.

“Get us a room and keep my stuff inside. Feed Frost within an hour or so. Then, do as you please until night falls. Be back in the room once the sun falls.”

Marcurio huffs something that sounds like “alright little prince,” but he does as he's told. Jasper couldn't take someone so mouthy along on a job. The ache in his head subsides more and more the longer the mage is gone, yet he misses the company.

No time to think of his feelings how, for there's a job to be done.

His target. Aval Atheron. Dunmer meat merchant. Also deals in possibly stolen and used items. Jasper's only concern with Atheron, however, is the gold diamond ring in his pocket.

If he could do this well, maybe Brynjolf would stop coddling him.

“Miss?” He calls out to a female guard. She turns to him. She's short and thin, but carries a greatsword on her back.

“Speak, elf.” He had heard the people of Windhelm were far less welcoming than those in Riften, but he didn't think it to be this bad.

“Can you direct me to the marketplace?” She points to the left.

“Follow the sound of the hammer. Damned bastard always clunking around.” She walks back to her post, muttering about the migraines the hammer gave her.

Jasper can see how it gets annoying as he approaches the marketplace. The blacksmith is indeed hammering and hammering away. Jasper tries his best to drown it out, and surveys the merchants and their patrons. Atheron is easy enough to spot.

He watches him. And waits. Waits until the burly nord man leaves his stand. Waits until who he can only assume is Atheron's sister comes and goes. Waits until he has the man's personality profiled. Waits until the sun is setting.

The waiting sends a deep chill into his bones. He hasn't been this cold since…

Whatever. He's cold. And misses Riften. And Brynjolf. The guild in general.

(Mostly Brynjolf).

When Atheron begins packing up shop, he strikes. The poor little kid stunt works good enough, and though it's humiliating, there's not much else he can think of. Aside from breaking and entering in the middle of the night, which is more trouble than it's worth.

If he had to throw his pride to the wind for a minute to get a minute of praise, so be it.

He limps out of his shadowy alcove, clutching his thigh for dear life. It throbs under his grip. Maybe it would be good for something after all. Atheron is the last merchant in the square. A true victim of opportunity.

Finally, something was going right.

“Mister, can you come here?” Jasper pulls his hood back, pinching his face in half real pain. “Please, it hurts.” Atheron drops his bags and rushes over to him in a second.

Easy.

Jasper moves his free hand to gain purchase on the dunmer's hip. While Atheron begins to fuss over him, Jasper dips his fingers into the man's left pocket. He draws out an object he can't recognise by touch, but he slips it into his sleeve anyway.

“Do you need help walking back to..?” Atheron trails off, and Jasper nods.

“I'm staying at Candlehearth Hall. Thank you, mister.” Jasper covers up his delve into the man's right pocket with a particularly loud whine. He grabs onto what feels like a ring, and lets it fall down his sleeve. He leans his full weight on the man, making a grunt of pain every few steps.

Once they reach the door, Jasper wobbles to his feet.

“Thank you so much, mister. I think I can go on my own now!” Once Atheron is out of his sight, he pulls his hood back up and walks into the door, very conscious of the items in his shirt. His heart is beating quick, and his head is fuzzy from the adrenaline.

The barmaid looks at him quizzically.

“I'm sharing a room with someone. The loud one.” She nods, knowing exactly who he's talking about.

“Good luck.” She calls after him, exhaustion thick in her voice.

Marcurio isn't hard to find. Theirs is the room full of obnoxious and off key lute playing.

“Hey, you're back!” Marcurio puts the lute down.

“Hey, you're still a headache.” It's meant to be a joke, but like everything he says, it comes out flat.

Marcurio seems to get it, though.

“How'd it go?” Marcurio is loud.

“Shhhh.” Jasper sits beside him on the bed, and shakes his sleeve. Two things fall onto the bed. A ring, and a pouch.

“Oooooh. Shiny.” Marcurio stage-whispers. Jasper knows it's mostly to mock him, but the change in volume is drastic.

Now he can hear his heart in his ears.

“Very shiny. And a bonus.” Jasper grabs the crude pouch. Probably Atheron's earnings for the day. Its heavy in his hands.

Then, he drops the purse in favor of the ring. He studies it once before dropping it in the pouch.

“Well, now that that's over, we have more important matters to discuss.” Marcurio claims, rummaging through one of the end tables.

“More importa..? Oh.” Marcurio pulls the book from the drawer with a triumphant shout. Back to obnoxious now that they're done discussing the job.

Jasper can't say that he minds it as the mage opens the book and tells him to “stop sitting on the edge of the bed like a cat and get over here so we can read.”

\---

Riften isn't yet in his sight when Jasper feels it. His thigh. Delvin's hack job healing worked at the time, but it was opening back up now.

“Marcurio, stop.” Jasper is having his turn on the ground, while the Mage is on Frost's back.

“What is it? I'm very impatient, you know.”

“I do know.” He removes his hand from his thigh. The blood has soaked through. It takes a lot out of his pride to say, “Can you fix it? Before we hit the stables?” His voice comes out demure, though he doesn't want it to.

Marcurio looks down. “Fuck.”

That's what Delvin said, too. It couldn't be _that_ bad, right?

The mage dismounts the horse, and tethers him to a tree nearby. “Sit down and take off your trousers.” His voice loses its bounce in favor of a clinical seriousness. Though he doesn't exactly want to be bare in the middle of a dirt path, Jasper isn't fond of bleeding out, either. He does as he's told, peeling his pants off and folding them, setting them down on the rock he's decided to sit on. He presses his legs as tightly together as he can. They haven't quite reached the Rift-Eastmarch border, and the Windhelm chill is present, as far as they are from the megalithic city.

Marcurio is at his side in a heartbeat, holding the bottle of wine Jasper bought and one of the wraps of linen.. “Smart kid.” He forces Jasper's legs apart and takes one of his daggers. He cuts the linen into a square and folds it once, twice and soaks it in wine.

He presses it to the wound with a barely there sort of pressure, like he's afraid to hurt Jasper.

“Really?”

Marcurio sighs through his nose and mumbles something akin to, “you're barely a man, barely a boy. It can't be helped that I don't want to break you,” but presses harder all the same.

The sting is elucidating if anything. It does burn, and he may or may not be biting his lip to stifle a hiss, but the pain feels clean.

If that makes any sense.

It probably doesn't.

His mind is muddled from the bite of the wine but he knows that it's cleansing him so all he can do is not draw blood from his lip and hope and pray to the Nine, or the Eight, even the Daedra that he's not infected.

Marcurio removes the linen with a gentle motion, and then summons a peachy light into his palms. The warmth is far more concentrated than Delvin's, and when the mage is done, the only indication the wound was there in the first place is the lingering pain and the shiny, pinkish scar tissue. It stands out against the bronze of his leg, and it may just be his pain-blurred mind, but he finds it pretty.

“You've lost a lot of blood, little prince. Your turn on the horse.”

After that, he's fast asleep.

\---

When the kid walks into the Ragged Flagon, he's an absolute mess. He's limping, that's for sure, and there's a deep stain on his inner thigh that Brynjolf thinks to be blood. When Jasper hobbles closer, dropping something in front of Delvin, Brynjolf knows it to be blood.

“Not bad, kid. Not bad at all. Here's your payment.” Delvin drops a hefty bag of 400 gold onto the table, and Jasper snatches it up and drops it in his satchel.

“It was easy enough.”

“Easy, lad? Then what's with your leg?” Brynjolf moves from the bar, setting down his drink, and stands so he's face to face with his new recruit.

Or as face to face as they can be, when the kid's head barely reaches his chest. Jasper looks up.

“It's just a wound that reopened on the way back. Nothing major.”

“Nothin’ major? You almost bled out all over my bar!” Vekel cries.

“God damn it, Vekel. That was s'posed to be a secret.” Delvin holds his face in his hands, and makes a noise that can only be described as pure annoyance.

“So we're keeping secrets now, lad? Here at the guild, we're the very best dealers in secrets. And you wanna know something about secrets? They always come out. Come with me, we've got a lot to discuss.”

Brynjolf takes the kid's hand, and Jasper lets him.

Time for a lecture.

He drags Jasper through the cistern and into the training room. He kicks out the occupants and schools his face into one of fatherly disappointment.

“I meant to tell you.”

Jasper's voice is near trembling, the most emotion he's heard out of it yet.

“It's alright, lad. Just tell me what happened, alright?” Brynjolf takes a seat on the floor, back against the wall, and pats the stone beside him. Jasper sits.

“It was at Goldenglow.” Brynjolf wants to ask both the kid and himself how he didn't notice it, but it's rude to interrupt, so he doesn't. “One of the mercenaries, uh, shot an arrow at my leg. I ripped it out and it was. Bad.” Jasper's words are stiff and come out all at once and then not at all. “I didn't mean to get hurt, I just. I've never been one for fighting.”

“Tell me this honestly. Have you ever been in a fight?”

“I, well… no.”

“How did you survive the trip?”

“Hired someone. The mage. Imperial.”

Marcurio. Brynjolf is half driven by protectiveness and half jealousy when he delivers his ultimatum.

“You're going to either train in here every day, or you can kiss your next job goodbye. No more wasting coin on some… some witch boy. Got it, lad?”

Jasper nods.

**Author's Note:**

> brynjolf is jeLLY lmao!! pls comment any mistakes u found and also if ur interested in beta'ing PLS LET ME KNOW cause the chapters are just gonna get longer from here and im a sleep deprived high school student who has like a A- in honors english i need all the help i can get,,,,


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